Last fall, Muslim and Jewish students at Princeton began
meeting as part of an unusual dialogue group, learning about similarities
and differences between Islam and Judaism under the guidance of Rabbi
Julie Roth and Muslim chaplain Khalid Latif. Over spring break, 20 of
the students — nine Muslims and 11 Jews — traveled with Roth
and Latif in Spain, where they studied the period of coexistence that
existed there during 700 years of Muslim rule. On their return to Princeton,
the students continued meeting, and it’s expected that discussion
will continue in the fall. Here, Shagufta Ahmed *07, who is Muslim, and
Marina Olevsky ’09, who is Jewish, write about their experiences.

Difficult discussions at the back of
the bus

By Shagufta Ahmed *07

Shagufta Ahmed *07 received her master’s degree in public
affairs from Princeton in June.

One afternoon when I was 12 years old, I was watching television, my
eyes fixed on the images on television of tanks entering the West Bank.
An escalation of Palestinian and Israeli hostilities was imminent. My
father reached over and turned off the TV. He gathered my sisters and
me around our dinner table and said something that still resonates in
my mind: “Don’t let anyone lead you to believe that Muslims
and Jews cannot peaceably coexist. History serves as your example.”

His impromptu lecture had begun. The topic: Islamic Spain.

Although I grew up in a racially diverse southern Californian suburb,
I was one of only a handful of Muslims in my community. My father was
an immigrant to the United States from Pakistan, where religion was interwoven
with the culture. In part owing to the absence of a local Muslim community,
my father felt it essential to reinforce my Muslim faith at home. I watched
his dedication to Islam as he took on extra hours of work during the week
so that he could take Fridays off for the Muslim obligatory congregational
prayer. My childhood years included regular attendance at Sunday-school
classes at the mosque. At home, my mother taught me how to read the Quran
in Arabic. My father supplemented this with regular discourse regarding
Islam.

However, discussions of spirituality were not limited to Islam. My father
encouraged us to learn about other faiths and to participate in the religious
services of our non-Muslim friends. It was through my father’s discussions
that I had my first exposure to Judaism. He taught us about the respect
accorded to Judaism in the Quran, with both Jews and Christians regarded
as People of the Book. He taught us about the underlying similarities
of the Abrahamic faiths.

In our kitchen on that day in the early 1990s, I listened as my father
described a period of Spanish history that had escaped mention in my European
history class. Muslims — or Moors, as they were more commonly known
— ruled over much of the Iberian Peninsula for more than 700 years,
until 1492. Despite some periods of infighting and persecution, this era,
regarded as the Golden Age, was a notable time of tolerance between Muslims
and Jews.

When I learned of the opportunity to revisit this period in history
as part of a campus Muslim and Jewish dialogue in the fall, I was eager
to sign up. The dialogue — along with a spring-break trip to historic
sites of Islamic Spain — seemed an ideal opportunity to address
the questions I had regarding this period of tolerance in which two groups
now at odds were able to flourish intellectually and spiritually. We were
a diverse group of students — Jews of the Conservative, Reform,
and Orthodox movements and Muslim students of various ethnic backgrounds
following either Sunni or Shiite tradition. We were guided in discussion
by a rabbi, Julie Roth, and an imam, Khalid Latif. As a student of public
policy, I was eager to assess what aspects of governance made the symbiotic
relationship possible during this historic era in Spain. Was it due to
the overarching Muslim framework? Was it due to a particular rule of law?
Could we uncover the lessons and apply them today?

Although I had suspected that these were lofty goals, our time in Spain
revealed how far we really were from reaching them. From early on in the
trip it was apparent that both groups lacked a basic understanding of
the fundamentals of the other’s faith.

Our dialogue sessions were interspersed with stops to visit sublime
Islamic architecture, evident in both Muslim and Jewish structures. These
sites served as proof of the tolerance that once had been achieved between
these two peoples. Olive trees across the Spanish countryside served as
a reminder of the greater purpose of our dialogue.

The most revealing discourse occurred during our long hours in transit.
Face-to-face on a bus, we could not escape the most pressing and difficult
questions. Our exchanges included candid questions by Muslim students
to their Jewish counterparts. Muslims asked about the notion of Jews as
a “chosen” people and how it is perceived by non-Jews, and
about the distinction between Jewish faith and culture. We were fascinated
to hear about the Jewish perspective on afterlife, which we learned did
not include notions of heaven and hell like those found in both the Christian
and Muslim faiths.

Both groups danced around what seemed to be the underlying issue on
most of our minds — the conflict over Israel and Palestine. Most
of us hesitated to broach this incendiary topic because it could impede
other dialogue. For many of us, including me, this trip was about more
than just one conflict; it was a chance to learn about the dynamics of
a tolerant Islamic Spain and to delve further into each other’s
faiths. But in our final group session a student brought up the topic,
and in the hours remaining, conversation shifted to the elephant in the
room. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict dominated the dialogue in the back
of the bus.

(Illustration
by Paul Zwolak)

On the whole, both groups trod carefully when it came to asking questions
of the other, not wanting to affect friendships that had been forged during
the trip. At times, Muslim students were frustrated by questions they
felt were provocative and unfair. Despite our ethnically diverse group
of nine Muslim students, we felt we could not speak on behalf of the actions
and beliefs of 1.2 billion Muslims who spanned many cultures, languages,
and more than 1,400 years of history.

In one session, I was surprised by a question addressed to me. Did Islam
endorse martyrdom and therefore terrorism? a Jewish student asked. I replied
with an answer that I had thought was obvious — that no religion,
including Islam, would sanction such an egregious act. It appeared that
even at a world-renowned institution of higher learning, perceptions regarding
Islam were still vulnerable to distorted images in the media.

This discussion sparked a series of questions regarding Islam’s
view on a variety of topics, including the status of women and honor killings.
As I tried to dispel myths, I felt compelled to note something that a
post-9/11 world had brought into focus for me: Muslims arguably have the
worst public-relations campaign in the world.

I explained that although I believe it is each person’s responsibility
to seek out the truth about Islam, we have allowed those with the loudest
voices, the un-Islamic extremists, to overpower the vast, inherently moderate,
Muslim majority. The inability of American Muslims as a group to respond
systematically to acts of terror committed in the name of Islam has allowed
non-Muslims the opportunity to fill in gaps in their understanding about
our faith in their own way. Therefore, Muslims of our generation —
especially those with the skills and access that a Princeton education
affords — must work to undo the hold un-Islamic radicals have over
Islam’s image. At some point, I told the other students, I hope
to create a Muslim public-relations organization to help counter media
images that distort and hijack the very notion of Islam. Both the Jewish
and Muslim students encouraged me in this. Our dialogue underscored its
necessity.

In one of our last days in Spain, we traveled to Córdoba to visit
what was formerly La Mezquita, or the Great Mosque, an iconic feature
of ancient Islam. Despite the grandeur of the Alhambra palace, for me
the simple elegance of the Great Mosque was unparalleled. Muslim and Jewish
students collectively marveled at the beauty of the endless red and white
peppermint-stick-patterned arches. But for all of us, the admiration was
accompanied by a moment of reflection.

The ancient mosque was captured from the Moors by King Ferdinand III
in 1236 and became a church. While many of the features of the mosque
are intact, a Catholic cathedral has been built within it. Muslims wishing
to pray at the historic site are denied. This has become a source of tension
between the overwhelmingly Roman Catholic population of Spain and the
fast-growing minority of Muslims. This scene seemed ironic when I considered
the purpose of our trip. That is when it struck me — the dialogue
should not be confined to our two faiths, but widened to include people
of other faiths as well as those of secular tradition.

As we stared at the cathedral within the mosque, it seemed we were all
in agreement about one thing — the dialogue had only just begun.

(Illustration
by Paul Zwolak)

Despite uncomfortable questions, friendships
were built

By Marina Olevsky ’09

Marina Olevsky ’09 is concentrating in the Woodrow Wilson
School and studying for certificates in finance, Near Eastern studies,
and Russian studies.

Ukrainian Jew traveling and talking with Muslims in Spain — not
bad, I thought. The prospect of Princeton University’s Muslim-Jewish
Dialogue Alternative Spring Break Trip intrigued me from the moment I
had found the advertising flier tucked into my dormitory mailbox.

A spring break’s worth of architectural eye-candy aside, there
were more personal, more pressing reasons that enticed me to sign up.
I was born in Kiev. When I was 7, my family immigrated to America with
the ramparts of the former Soviet Union crashing behind us. We came as
religious refugees.

I grew up in a home almost sterile in its secularity. The U.S.S.R. effectively
had eradicated the religious practices of my parents’ and grandparents’
generations, and left them with nothing but an abstract monotheism and
a fear of anti-Semitism to show for their Judaism. Those generations yearned
to see a measured religious resuscitation in their offspring, and my parents
still delight in watching my sister and me chant the Hanukkah blessings.

Environment shapes worldview, and I was no exception. I learned early
that religion can lead to victimization — that Jewry has been persecuted
worldwide for millennia, and that the existence of Israel is a miracle
to be treasured. Still, befuddled by the incessant discussion of the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict portrayed in the media — or rather, by my lack of knowledge
of it — I decided that it was time for me to educate myself about
the conflict upon entering Princeton. Never having been to Israel, I grappled
with the kaleidoscopic representation of Middle Eastern reality buzzing
through TV screens, radio programs, and various Web sites. What did the
people actually think? What did the “other side” think?

Perhaps Princeton’s Muslim community could give me an answer.
Though most Muslims at Princeton are not Palestinian, their views on the
issue would at least paint a clearer picture of the Islamic perspective.
So I jumped at the chance to join the dialogue. I wanted to understand
the Muslim interpretation of events since 1948 in the region of present-day
Israel — and, what’s more, to hear these students’ expectations
and desires for the future.

The Spanish historical setting was an apt pick, richly conducive to
dialogue between Muslims and Jews, whose histories became intertwined
through centuries of Convivencia. During the period of Arab Muslim
rule from 711 to 1492, Jews residing in the region of present-day Spain
had dhimmi status — protected by law and able to practice
their religion relatively freely, yet second-class citizens who paid extra
taxes and faced various restrictions on their activities.

We can learn from the past. By drawing on historical proof of Convivencia,
we can say that religious tolerance is very possible between Muslims and
Jews. Lessons derived from analyzing the Convivencia could help
forge a route to peace in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Spain, peppered
as it is with places of worship that served as synagogue, mosque, and
church, in some order, is draped in a cultural fabric that unites Jews
and Muslims. Our group encountered one particularly memorable example
of this in the large synagogue in Toledo, which now functions as a museum.
It was decorated by Arab architects in the Mudejar style — making
the interior of the building resemble that of the Alhambra, its walls
bedecked with serpentine intricacies of carved designs. My photographs
of wall details in many of the Spanish synagogues and Muslim palaces are
virtually indistinguishable.

Upon arrival in Madrid, we dove right into dialogue. Notebooks were
distributed with crisp pages of text from the Torah and Quran printed
side by side. We read both accounts of similar stories (such as Hagar’s
journey from Abraham’s home with her son, Ishmael), and discussed
the significance of differences in phraseology between the texts.

This approach was a gentle way of easing the students into conversation,
but some of the Jewish students suggested that our largely scriptural
discussions were not conducive to addressing the issues affecting the
Middle East today. So we switched gears to discuss the realities wracking
the Middle East and how we might apply lessons learned from the Judeo-Islamic
experience in medieval Spain to the current conflict. Rabbi Julie Roth
and her husband, Rabbi Justus Baird (he was a rabbinical student at the
time of our trip), asked everyone to write two anonymous questions for
members of the other religious group to answer. (Unfortunately, Imam Khalid
Latif could not arrive until the third day.) We all curled up on the seats
of our tour bus, committing our most pressing thoughts to paper. The purpose
was to enable us to ask the sorts of provocative questions from which
we might demur in a collective setting.

The rabbi and her husband consolidated our questions into sets of five
questions posed to each group. All the questions posed by the Muslim students
were thought-provoking. Examples included: “Why do Jews emphasize
their victimization so much? Do you think that the State of Israel ever
uses the Holocaust as an excuse to commit unjust acts?” and “If
my religion allows me to eat kosher food, why can’t a Jew eat halal?”
A few minutes into the exercise, however, Rabbi Roth said that the Muslim
students did not feel comfortable answering the questions they had been
asked.

We were told that the Muslim students felt that the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict — which figured prominently in the questions written by
the Jewish students — was not the central issue driving the current
relationship between Jews and Muslims. In addition, none of the Muslims
on the trip was Palestinian, and the students felt that they could not
answer for a country that was not their own. Finally, we were told that
the Muslim students felt that there were more important issues to discuss,
such as our common Spanish history. This view surprised me. Admittedly,
the Spanish setting of our trip nicely suited historical discussion. On
the other hand, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, in my view, is the main
reason that Muslim-Jewish dialogues are so necessary today.

Rabbi Roth and Rabbi Baird then devised an alternative — a program
called “Get Personal” that paired each student with someone
of the other religion. One-on-one, the partners would discuss their views
on a range of topics, including religion’s role in their views on
premarital sex, their family environments, and their feelings of persecution.
This program may not have addressed the most contentious issues, but it
helped in a different way: By discussing the intimate details of personal
religious observance, we learned about each other on a meaningful level,
which bolstered the friendships we were forming along the way.

Eventually, we did get our feet wet. When Imam Latif arrived, he and
Rabbi Roth encouraged discussion of some of the more difficult issues.
In groups composed of students from both religions, our conversations
attempted to explore questions including “What’s your stance
on the Israeli-Palestinian issue, and why?” But while this approach
was edifying on topics such as religion’s role in our choice of
marriage partner, mutual trust, and religious dietary restrictions, it
was less fruitful in terms of addressing politically pertinent issues.
The Muslim students explained that they did not have enough information
on which to base opinions about this central Mideast conflict, and the
Jewish students often had conflicting perceptions of the situation on
the ground in Israel and Palestine, even among themselves.

And yet every program like this one, I imagine, has moments of frustrated
dialogue. The important thing is to focus on the gains in mutual trust,
and the leaps toward mutual understanding. On our trip, we got to know
each other on a personal level and became good friends. We did so many
things together, from seeing breathtaking Arab architecture to learning
about the different kinds of Islam practiced across different regions.

The meaning of friendship merits underscoring. True understanding can
come only as a result of trust — of mutual intellectual acknowledgment.
This we achieved in spades, and it will be immensely helpful in future
dialogue sessions. To be sure, this trip did not accomplish much real
conversation about the conflict that, in my opinion, is the very reason
why Muslim-Jewish dialogue is important in the first place. Yet it was
well worth the journey. The issues left to be addressed promise to be
attended to soon, thanks to the interpersonal foundations that our trip
to Spain laid firmly in place. All of the participants came out with stronger
ties. I look forward to many more group discussions, and to cherishing
the connection we all have developed. After all, anyone with whom you
have braved a tapas bar, gone clubbing in Madrid until 3 a.m.,
and compared Islamic and Judaic laws of feminine hygiene ... is a true
amigo.